


love you like i'm gonna lose you

by aubadezayn



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amputation, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky gets a new arm!, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Flirting, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Recovery, courting, wise women fixing men's problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7279210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubadezayn/pseuds/aubadezayn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on <a href="http://wiltraynor.tumblr.com/post/145234943867/on-another-note-i-really-want-to-write-a">this post</a> on my Tumblr!</p><p>post-CACW fic where steve is too afraid to take the next step in case bucky isn't in the right mindset, or is still too early in his recovery, but bucky knows what he wants and what he can handle. post-CACW fix it with domesticity and happiness (as much as i could muster).</p>
            </blockquote>





	love you like i'm gonna lose you

**Author's Note:**

> i would first like to thank [@apiaristcas](http://apiaristcas.tumblr.com) for beta-ing the beginning of this fic and always being by my side <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> come visit me on my tumblr @wiltraynor (or if i change back @starspangledsteve)

“Do you like it?” T’Challa asks, a small, quiet smile on his face as he watches Bucky flex his new fingers for the first time. Judging by the look in his eyes, Bucky is almost certain that if he breathed even a whisper of discontent T’Challa would have the best doctors and scientists in Wakanda fixing it and working to make it better. But that won’t be necessary. Bucky grins and tightens his fingers into a fist. He can feel it; he can feel the tension of tendons even though he doesn’t have any and the heavy sensory weight of his own fingers pressed together.

 

            “It’s incredible, thank you.” The color of the new arm is a near perfect match to Bucky’s skin tone, and he can’t get over the way it covers the scarring on his shoulder. It’s far better than Hydra’s hack job, and it’s clear to him that goodness is in this arm. This arm is not a tank attached to a human; it is not inherently a weapon. This arm is made of vibranium, and can caress and hold and sense, as much as it can protect and defend.

 

            Is it wrong, he wonders, that his first thought is that he can touch Steve with both able hands now?

 

            “I am glad that you like it.” T’Challa preens, nodding happily. “It’s the best of Wakandan technology, and I _trust_ that you will use it wisely.” There was a subtle, gentle threat in his tone implying that if he absolutely had to, T’Challa would not hesitate to put an end to any madness or violence. This was clearly a gift made of generosity, of wisdom, and Bucky didn’t blame him for making that clear. If HYDRA’s conditioning was triggered again, or if the good in him couldn’t outweigh the bad any more…well, he would want T’Challa to take it back.

 

            Bucky cradles his new hand in his old one and weighs it by bouncing it up and down lightly. It feels so real.

 

            He vows, while sitting in one of the labs overlooking the jungles of Wakanda, that he won’t let this second chance slip by. Synapses firing, blood rushing, lips smiling – he has opportunities he hasn’t had in 70 years. The arm may be metal, and hell maybe it’s just a body part anyway, but it feels like a symbolic turn-of-the-page, a new chapter. Hell, a new _book_.

 

            Chapter two of his story starts with Steve, as all the chapters seem to do.

 

* * *

 

            “So let me see!” Steve grins at him when T’Challa finally clears out, pleased to see that Bucky is pleased. He’s got this big dopey smile on his face that makes Bucky nearly blush, though he doesn’t think the red ever reaches his cheeks. It gets stuck somewhere in his chest and keeps him warm and flushed as he extends the arm outward towards Steve.

 

            “Oh wow.” Steve gasps, moving towards the arm with an outstretched hand. Bucky hesitates for a moment, shifting back just an inch – but the look in Steve’s eyes, like he’s actually ready to beg, eases his worries. He can handle this. He can.

 

            For the first time since he woke up as the Winter Soldier he believes he actually can handle this.

 

            Steve’s fingers are like fire and ice simultaneously on Bucky’s skin, even as they move lightly and innocently across his knuckles. They look like _his_ knuckles, which has to be driving Steve crazy. These are the fingers he had in the forties, hard and worn from work at the docks, soft from love. From the flush on Steve’s cheeks, and the way he avoids Bucky’s eyes, he remembers these hands. It’s incredible how T’Challa has given himself something so realistic, something so unbelievably familiar.

            “It’s awesome, isn’t it?” Bucky sighs happily, hair rising up on his opposite arm as Steve traces each finger, touching the fingernails and every artificial wrinkle like they need to be memorized. “Oh!” He gasps suddenly as Steve’s finger strokes deliberately, stronger than before, down the center of his palm. The sensation is something he was sure he’d never feel again, amplified times a thousand, and the plea for Steve to do it again is just on the tip of his tongue when Steve backs up.

 

            He places Bucky’s new hand down gently on his thigh like it’s made of glass, and backs up to a “respectable” distance. Anyone looking in would have no idea Steve had just caused the first burst of lust Bucky’s felt in 70 years. Bucky still feels the shock of Steve’s touch running up and down the nerves in his arm.

 

            “It is  _incredible_ , Bucky. I’m really happy for you.” It’s genuine, at least, but Steve doesn’t look at him as openly as he had a moment ago. He coughs, clearly fake, and puffs out his chest a little bit like he’s trying to regain a little bit of that Captain America bravado. Just the thought of Steve’s alter ego brings to mind the shield, and of Steve dropping an identity so important to him just to carry Bucky. It makes him more sure than ever that he wants to touch Steve again, and kiss him, and hug him. That he needs to. Soon.

 

            Bucky’s been through the ringer and back, and god damn it if this time around he doesn’t _at least_ get to touch Steve’s dick.

 

* * *

 

            Post-op, post-therapy, post-labs and doctors and scientists – Bucky and Steve finally get out of T’Challa’s hair. They move with Wanda into a seemingly normal apartment close to and through an underground tunnel, connected to the palace. Clint returns home to his family. Sam elects to stay in the palace, for what he calls active duty, but what Bucky knows means “flirt with the King”. Ant-Man, whose name he still doesn’t know, something with an “L” maybe, disappears pretty quickly after they spring him from prison.

 

            He leaves happy goodbyes though, and promises to come help with any future battles (though he insists no one needs to kidnap him next time).

 

            Wanda is quiet, and withdrawn, and Bucky likes to sit with her in companionable silence when Steve’s in a snit about his feelings. She doesn’t ask questions, and Bucky doesn’t ask any in return. They usually marathon watch The Price is Right or random game shows, and eat popcorn. For a small girl, she puts away more food than Bucky does.

 

            They hang out frequently because neither of them are fighting anymore, or working, but especially when Steve’s in a mood or acting weird. An example is when Steve accidentally asked Bucky if it hurt when he fell, and Bucky couldn’t help himself.

 

            They’re sitting there at the kitchen table eating bowls of cereal, Steve’s got cheerios and Bucky’s got Reeses’ puffs. It’s a nice morning in Wakanda, kind of foggy and muggy out but cold inside because Wanda likes the air conditioner at blasting. Bucky sleeps pretty good now so he’s well-rested, unlike when he was on his own and had nightmares or insomnia. He’d trace his escape route in Romania constantly, either in his mind or physically out of bed. Now he just sleeps, knowing that if anything happens, at least Steve is just one door down.

 

            It would be nice if he was just on the other side of the bed, but that doesn’t seem likely for at least awhile.

 

            Bucky’s just about done with breakfast, and going to offer going on a run together when Steve looks up at him with this puppy-dog, distraught expression on his face. Bucky’s about to defuse the situation with a joke about stale Cheerio’s when Steve reaches out to touch his hand. It’s his real one, but it’s just because it’s the closest to Steve that he grabs it.

 

            “Buck…I was just thinkin’…did it hurt when you fell?” He asks solemnly, and Bucky’s head nearly explodes straight off his shoulders. Is he…? Did Steve really just…?

 

            He’s frozen for a second, thinking of the appropriate response to this but he isn’t coming up with one. What do you say when your crush (and Bucky loathes that word but he and Wanda watch Girl Code sometimes and it fits well) uses a pick up line on you? Bucky had never used any sort of line when he was a charmer in the 40’s, he’d just used his body language and complimented the ladies. Everyone swooned when you told them how pretty they were. Should he respond like that?

 

            Should he get up and sit in Steve’s lap? His brain is unable to compute the appropriate reaction and response, so he just shovels another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. With his mouth full, Bucky asks “From Heaven? You tryin’ to pick me up, Stevie?”

 

            Steve goes from sad puppy-dog to tomato in -10 seconds. The blush spreads across his face in a wave, painting the tips of his ears bright red and down into the collar of his shirt. If Bucky could see through clothes, he knew he’d probably see that blush spreading all the way down Steve’s chest.

 

Steve stammers out “I meant with Tony – the fight with Iron Man, when you fell a bunch of times! I meant then, not – I didn’t mean-“

 

Bucky sighs and stands up, taking his dirty bowl to the sink and running water in it. “Don’t have a cow, Steve. I get it, and nah, not much. Besides, him cutting off my arm hurt more.” It’s kind of hard to remember that idly talking about your decapitated arm is hard for other people, because just as Bucky’s realizing that might have been too blunt Steve’s out the front door.

 

So, instead of chasing after him and putting him in even worse a mood, Bucky sighs and goes to wake up Wanda. He could definitely use some good old companionable silence and Wakandan talk shows.

 

* * *

 

 

Two nights from the Incident, Wanda goes to visit Clint and Bucky decides to try something new. If Steve is still actively thinking about the fight with Iron Man, then maybe that’s his issue – and Bucky knows how to get his mind off things. (Or at least, he did. He hopes he still does)

 

Steve is sneaking out of the house for a run, or more likely just to avoid him since every time they’ve seen each other the last two days he’s gone bright red, when Bucky sets his plan in motion. He stops the door from opening with his vibranium hand, and makes Steve look him in the eyes. Bucky waits a moment, until Steve just starts to sweat from the nerves and then he smiles.

 

“Be home soon okay? I’m going to make dinner.”

 

“You-you’re what?” Steve splutters.

 

“Making. Dinner.” Bucky says like Steve is a child, each word it’s own small serious sentence directed straight into Steve’s face. “Be home soon.” Bucky moves away from the door, towards the kitchen, his bare feet padding along the linoleum. He only has to wait a couple seconds with his back turned before he hears the door shut, and he smiles.

 

“What, uh, are you making?” Steve asks, sidling up along the counter towards Bucky’s back.

 

“Meatloaf, I think…” Bucky trails off for a second, lost in the swirl of his mind before finding his words again. “I might remember your Mom’s recipe.”

 

Steve comes closer, his arm pressed almost to Bucky’s as he looks down at the ingredients Bucky’s already laid out. “Seems like just yesterday, doesn’t it? Since we were both begging for change to get a soda before dinner.” Steve smiles, looking down at the counter lost in the past and Bucky takes the chance to just look at him. This is the first time since Bucky got out of cryo that Steve’s been so close, even when he was touching Bucky’s new arm.

 

Steve smells like old man’s Irish Spring soap, and the leather of his jacket. They’re more than close enough for Bucky to be able to kiss him, to touch his cheek or run his fingers through fine blonde hair. Steve huffs a tired, gentle sigh of “oh well” and finally looks up at Bucky. There’s something open to his expression that grabs Bucky by the heart, and the balls, and grips tight. It’s the look of impoverished-but-happy, of coughing-but-still-alive, of i-found-you – Bucky’s seen it only a couple times on Steve.

 

Bucky could kiss him, right here right now, make it clear. Put the offer up.

 

He doesn’t.

 

For some reason, whether it be the calculated likelihood of Steve running away or the gut deep urge to not-ruin-this, Bucky moves away. He smiles as he does it, but the space is still there like a huge drop off between them. Both of them too afraid to cross it.

 

“You remember the recipe?” Bucky asks, coughing as he looks into the fridge. The cough is like a verbal period marker; it acts as the starter to a new moment, and Steve accompanies it with a shrug.

 

“I think so. It’s a little fuzzy but hey,” Steve smiles again, catching the bottle of ketchup Bucky lodges at him without warning. “It’s meatloaf we can’t fuck it up too badly.”

 

* * *

 

 

They don’t fuck it up. It’s delicious, as delicious as meat loaf gets, and they eat in almost completely casual friendship on the couch watching stand up comedians on Netflix. For awhile, there’s no tension, no pressure, no overwhelming desire to touch crushed by the fear of rejection. Just the safe and companionable press of shoulders, typical dropping of food on the carpet, and chortling over stupid jokes – it’s not the 40’s but it’s better.

 

When dinner is over, and the kitchen is cleaned, Steve offers that they go on a walk and Bucky agrees. It’s warm in Wakanda, but the night chill still nips a little, even at Bucky’s overheated super soldier skin. He walks close to Steve, for a thousand and one reasons, but the other man never complains.

 

They don’t go too far from the apartment, walking along the sidewalk and looking up at the stars in mostly silence. They chat about whether Wanda’s having fun at Clint’s (She is, she texted), about how big Nathaniel’s gotten (He’s almost three, apparently), and about Bucky’s arm (It’s remarkable, it’s incredible, they thank T’Challa back and forth for a minute). From there it’s mostly quiet silence, and the occasional ignored brush of hand against hand between them.

 

Then something comes into Bucky’s mind, and before he’s even realizing it he’s blurting it out. The moment the words pass out of his mouth, he wants to reel them back in with a grappling hook. “Steve, do you remember everything from before?”

 

Steve looks at him in the mostly dark solemnly, and nods. His lips are pursed tightly, and the slight crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepen. “Why?”

 

“I just…I’m getting better; I remember so much more.” Bucky remembers the smell of the docks in Brooklyn, and the feel of sleeping on the ground in the army, and the first time he seen Steve after the serum. He remembers Sarah, and newspapers, and Coney Island. He remembers Dot, and dancing, and drinking. But that’s not a life, he still doesn’t remember it all.

 

“That’s _good_ , Buck. I’m sure more will come.” Steve grips his shoulder tight for a moment with a reassuring smile, before letting go. “Just takes time.”

 

“What if they don’t come back?” There’s something to darkness that emboldens a person, and Bucky is embarrassingly no different. In the daytime, he tries to be strong and sure. He tries to be “recovered”, but what if he’s not?

 

Steve is quiet, pondering the question seriously. Bucky sticks his hands into his jacket pockets so he won’t feel the urge to hold Steve’s, and waits.

 

“Well…if they don’t come back Buck, I’ll tell you.” Steve smiles. “I was there for all the good parts anyway, right?” He bumps jokingly into Bucky’s side but doesn’t really pull back, he walks in Bucky’s space like he might want to hold Bucky’s hand too. Bucky bumps him back.

 

“Sure, punk.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

* * *

 

 

Wanda comes home a day later, and though Steve and he have had time to get closer and more comfortable, Bucky’s ecstatic to see her. He spends all day before she comes home cleaning, and baking her some of the cookies she likes. It’s therapeutic, and when the plate of warm mint chocolate chip cookies is cooling on the counter Bucky knows he’s in too deep with more than one person in the damn house.

 

It’s only confirmed when he hugs her and spins her around, like he remembers doing to Rebecca before the war. She slaps him on the shoulder, laughing and says she’s missed him, even though he’s a brute. It’s nice to have family again.

 

The day after Wanda gets home, Steve goes to T’Challa’s palace for a meeting with Natasha. It’s the easiest way to see her without gaining suspicion from Tony, or from the US government, or from the United Nations, or any of their other enemies. As far as Bucky knows it’s just a social call, but Steve could just as likely come home with a mission for them. He hopes he doesn’t though, because Wanda has convinced him in her bullying (and slightly butchered) Russian that today should be the first day of Plan: I’m-Fine-Kiss-Me-Already.

 

Bucky spends all day working on gathering his first surprise, and just barely has it finished when Steve gets home. He looks weary, but happy, and the wave he throws Bucky before going to the kitchen seems tired but otherwise okay. Steve passes once more, heading towards his room with his jacket off and thrown over his back.

 

Bucky waits, nerves racketing his bones. Then he hears the small gasp, and the sound of Steve’s jacket falling to the floor, and Bucky’s off down the hall immediately.

 

Steve’s bedroom door is open, and he’s still standing mostly in the doorway hand on the light switch. “What?” He manages to say, letting Bucky guide him in further. “Did you do this Buck?”

 

“Yeah.” Bucky admits gruffly, looking over his handiwork. “I thought you could use a reminder of the good Captain America’s done, and how many people appreciated you. How making mistakes doesn’t mean you’re not a hero.”

 

Neatly pinned to one of Steve’s walls are almost a hundred letters and drawings and photos. Each one is from someone Captain America saved, someone who idolized him, someone who met him or was interviewed about him. There’s news clippings about how Captain America saved the day, again. Bucky even managed to find and print out and old army file detailing when Steve had rescued them from Hydra, on his very first mission.

 

It’s maybe not the prettiest decoration but by the wide-eyed, almost watery look to Steve’s eyes – it’s a good gift.

 

“You like it?” Bucky shuffles awkwardly, flexing his vibranium hand nervously against his stomach.

 

“I love it, Buck. Thank you.” Before Bucky realizes what he’s doing, Steve has his arm around Bucky and he’s reeling him in like a fish. Steve wedges his arms under Bucky’s and wraps them solidly around his waist, forcing Bucky to either stand there with his arms weirdly at his sides or put them over Steve’s massive shoulders.

 

Slowly both his arms come to rest on Steve’s upper back, one clasped to his bicep holding him close and the other on the back of his neck. Steve is solid and warm and too much in Bucky’s arms, and they hug for what seems like eternity.

 

Bucky’s cheek presses tight to Steve’s ear and neck, and he breathes in the scent of mango shampoo. I love you, I love you, _I love you_. It runs in his head like a mantra all night long.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day’s surprise requires Wanda’s help because Bucky knows jack-shit about flowers. “What do you think he would like?” Bucky asks as they peruse a Wakandan market’s flower section, running a finger along a pretty bright blue one with big fat petals.

 

“It is not about what he would _like_ ; it is about what the flowers say.” Wanda shakes her head at him like he’s a massive fool, picking up a handful of small yellow flowers. She strokes her finger over the petals and holds them up for Bucky to look at it. “Yellow means friendship. But is that the meaning we want to send?”

 

“Yes?” Bucky asks, rubbing his nose idly where the pollen is starting to irritate his sinuses. This is too much work; he had intended to just pick what was pretty. Maybe something blue for Steve’s eyes, but not all this double meaning stuff.

 

“No.” Wanda rolls her eyes tiredly.

 

“I’d be happy being his friend.” Bucky argues, defending himself as he inspects long, skinny pink flowers near the yellow ones.

 

“Then give him the yellow ones and let’s go home and watch the Price is Right.” Wanda shoves the yellow flowers at him and starts to walk away. Bucky lunges to grab her and pull her against his side.

 

“Okay, okay.” He concedes. “I would be happy, if that was all I could get.  Where are the let-me-in-your-pants flowers?”

 

Wanda zaps him gently so he’ll let her go, and shakes her head again saying something probably derogatory in Sokovian. Then she walks away, this time towards the other flowers, and he hears her mutter, “Men.”

 

Bucky sniffs the yellow ones, and decides to keep them. They’re small, but with robust scent and they’ll be his safety net of flower meaning. He would be happy just being Steve’s best friend, these will be the reminder of that.

 

            He finds Wanda again near roses. She has a large bundle of red ones, and white ones, and a couple pink ones. “What do these mean?” Bucky asks, taking them and adding his smaller yellow ones to the bunch.

 

“Only good things.” Wanda says cryptically, adding several sprigs of tall purple reedy flowers to the bunch.

 

“Aw, come on, now you’re not going to tell me? When you made such a fuss-“

 

“Red means love, in short terms. White means honesty, purity, good intentions. Pink means youth, happiness, good wishes. Yellow, as I said, means friendship.” She seems to judge him for adding the yellow ones, but shrugs it off. “Purple means something like…’we made it’. I would say.”

 

“I think he’ll like them.” Bucky says, taking a large sniff of the bunch and hoping it’s not too much.

 

“I think so too.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky is nervous for almost 35 minutes when they get home. Steve was just getting into the shower when they arrived, the water bursting from the tap nearly at the exact moment Bucky stepped through the door. It was truly unfortunate because Bucky had wanted to just walk in while he had his courage, and shove them at Steve before he could overthink it.

 

Now he’d had to wait and rile himself up, and the water has just finally turned off. His palms sweat, though it’s probably psychosomatic that the artificial one does too.

 

The bathroom door opens and pours out a massive wave of steam. Bucky catches a small glimpse of wet, reddened muscle as Steve moves to his room across from the bathroom, and he’s embarrassed to say he goes a little bit hard like a teenager. He shifts his dick in his jeans, hoping it’s not too obvious, and stands up. The flowers are in a simple clear vase, and he carries it with both hands to stop them from shaking.

 

Bucky takes a deep breath, waits a moment, and heads down the hall towards Steve’s room. The door is cracked open, but mostly shut, which protects Bucky from accidentally seeing something that might make him go full-chub. He props the vase against his side and taps on the door gently a couple times. “You decent?” He jokes, his voice coming out strangled by accident. It’s like he’s picking up a dame for prom or somethin’, and a blush rises up his face at how awkward he feels.

 

“Almost!” Steve shouts to him, and Bucky blushes red-hot at the images his mind pulls up. Soft fabric sliding over flushed pink nipples, briefs settling tight over plump ass cheeks…it’s almost enough to make Bucky run away and leave the flowers there on their own. Finally, after what seems like hours of torturous fantasies running through his head, the door swings open to reveal a fully dressed Steve Rogers.

 

His feet are bare though, which Bucky focuses on as he shoves the flowers at Steve with his head pointed down towards their feet. “What-“ Steve starts, his voice startled.

 

“They’re for you.” Bucky peers up at Steve through his eyelashes, and looks up more when he sees the small sweet smile on Steve’s face. “Do you like ‘em?”

 

Steve takes the vase from his hands and brings them up to his nose, taking a deep inhale that makes his smile grow into a grin. “Like ‘em? I love ‘em, Buck, thank you.”

 

It’s like someone lifts an anvil off Bucky’s chest, and he finds himself smiling back – by far the biggest grin he’s had in this century. “Great. Wanda helped me pick them. Says they’ve got all types of meanings.”

 

“Oh yeah, like what?” Bucky realizes immediately that he can’t tell Steve the meaning behind the majority of the bouquet. The red mean love, pink means happiness – the large majority of the flowers mean I love you, please love me back.

 

“Uh, I don’t remember them all but yellow means friendship and she said purple means, like, ‘we made it’ I think.” Those seem safe, they can be construed any way Steve wants without being pushy.

 

“Well that’s accurate isn’t it?” Steve turns and puts them on his side table, right below the collage of fan letters and photos Bucky had put up. He sniffs them once more, and looks back at Bucky. “I didn’t get you anything though, Buck. What’s the occasion?”

 

“Can’t show you a good time for no reason?” Bucky asks, trying to deflect while he comes up with an actual reason other than I love you, dear god I do.

 

“Well yeah you can, just…I don’t want you to strain yourself or think you owe me something Buck.”

 

“Come on, Steve I bought the flowers I didn’t grow them. There’s nothing straining about it. And as for owing you something?” Bucky came further into Steve’s room and sat down on the end of his bed. Steve sits next to him quietly. “I do owe you something.”

 

“No you don’t-“

 

“Yes I do. I owe you for finding me and trying to protect me even when I wasn’t me. You gave up being Cap for me, Steve, you fought your own friend for me. You’ve done more for me than I can thank you.” Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Bucky held his hand up to stop him. “Owing somebody isn’t always a bad thing. I owe you a lot, but I’m not doing nice things for you because of that.”

 

“Then why?”

 

“Because you’re my friend.” ~~And I _love_ you.~~

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky gives the gifts a break for a couple of days, both because he needs to think of the next one and because he doesn’t want to push Steve too far. Steve still tiptoes around Bucky, trying to take easy tasks like cooking dinner from him so he doesn’t strain himself. He makes Bucky do exercises for his arm, and take pain medication that nearly evaporates in his system but takes the edge off from his shoulder pain. It’s not bad though, not as bad as Steve seems to think it is.

 

Physical boundaries aren’t the only ones that Steve has set though, he tries not to talk about the Winter Soldier or anything about the war with Iron Man. The first time Bucky realizes Steve is trying to protect him from his own past is when Bucky is home alone, flipping through tv channels aimlessly, and finds a Winter Soldier documentary. It has a great narrator with a deep suspenseful voice, and most of the information seems well-researched, if not always correct.

 

Bucky’s watched almost half an hour of it by the time Steve gets home from the market, and promptly drops them on the couch in his hurry to turn off the tv. “You shouldn’t watch things like that.”

 

“Why the fuck not?” Bucky asks, rustling through the bag to see if Steve had bought more salt and vinegar chips.

 

“It’s not good for your recovery. T’Challa’s doctors said so.”

 

“Fuck them, it’s not like it’s stuff I don’t know already.” Bucky shoves a handful of chips into his mouth and chews sarcastically. Steve takes the bag into the kitchen and starts unloading it, his back tense and to Bucky. Bucky flips the tv back on, and visibly sees the vein in Steve’s neck throb. “They got a lot wrong though, I should email them.”

 

“Buck, please turn it off.” Steve’s voice is hard as steel.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because the Winter Soldier tried to kill me more than once, turn it _off_.” Steve leaves the bag half-full on the counter and disappears into his room. It’s not the first time Bucky realizes that he’s overstepped Steve’s boundaries, but it’s the first time he really feels bad about it. Bucky changes the channel to a game show, and goes to finish putting away the groceries.

 

He makes Steve a gross protein smoothie and brings it to his room. He knocks a couple times and leaves it on the floor outside the door. As he’s walking away he hears the door open and shut, and though it doesn’t fix the past, Bucky hopes the apology is clear.

 

* * *

 

The next day Bucky has a brilliant idea, probably rash and too fast, but when he tells Wanda about it she thinks it’s perfect. It’s not really a gift for Steve, but it’s something Bucky’s literally been dreaming about the last couple of days. It’s almost more a gift for Bucky than it is for Steve, but if the end result is good, then it’ll be a gift for them both.

 

“Hey Steve?” Bucky asks, approaching Steve slowly where he’s sat on the fire escape drawing. His hair shines in the sunshine, and he looks so vibrant and bright it almost hurts Bucky’s eyes.

 

“Yeah Buck?” Steve looks up from his sketchbook, and smiles invitingly.

 

“Can I sit with you?”

 

“Sure!” Steve scoots over, which doesn’t open up too much room seeing as they’re both massive, but it’s enough for Bucky to sit pressed to Steve’s side. Bucky leans back so Steve has room for his elbows, so he can keep drawing, but their thighs are still pressed tight alongside each other. Bucky lays back and takes in the breeze, and the soft sound of pencil against paper.

 

“Whatcha drawin’?” Bucky asks after a moment. The sun is coming down hard on them, and Bucky likes the warmth and slight burn it leaves on his face and hands. He wonders if the artificial one can tan.

 

“A bird.”

 

“What kind?”

 

“Dunno.”

 

When Bucky gets hungry and Steve’s ass is numb from the fire escape they head inside. Bucky asks if he can see Steve’s drawing, but Steve says he scrapped it – the shading was shit, he says. Later on, Bucky will notice that the trash is empty and he’ll go sneak a peek in Steve’s sketchbook, left carelessly on the coffee table. He won’t be intending to invade any privacy; he won’t be intending to see something he’s not supposed to – but he will.

 

Because, scattered on several pages are drawings of him, of his hair in the sunlight, of his closed eyes and long eyelashes, of his mouth and his jawline, of his hands. They’re all beautiful, and shocking because the longing is nearly visible in each stroke of the pencil. He can see Steve hunched over the book with Bucky right next to him, their thighs together, breathing in the same air. It’s written in the pages of a book Steve didn’t want him to see.

 

Bucky drops the book back to it’s place like it’s scorched him, and hurries to do something else. As he’s making dinner, he tries not to think of the drawings. He tries to remember why he’s waiting, why he’s letting Steve keep him at arms length, but as he cooks each reason seems to fall away.

 

Steve’s only waiting and tiptoeing because he’s scared of pushing, right? He’s afraid of overstepping Bucky’s boundaries, even though Steve is the one that set them all!

 

“Hey, Buck what do you want – oh you’re already cooking?” Steve comes into the kitchen and picks up a piece of red pepper from the board where Bucky is cutting up vegetables. The food is so much more vibrant in this century than it had been in the 40’s.

“Yeah, stirfry. That good?” Bucky gives Steve the knife, gestures for him to finish chopping and moves to stir the pasta.

 

“Sure.”

 

When the pasta is successfully spun around, and Bucky turns to see big ol’ Steve hunched over a cutting board, carefully chopping each pepper, he can’t help himself. “Hey Steve?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“In the 40’s…were we…did we ever…?” Bucky can’t seem to formulate the question, even though it’s screaming in his mind. Steve stops chopping and lays the knife gently on its side on the cutting board.

 

“Did we ever…what?”

 

“The girls liked me, right?” Bucky asks, voice shaky just a little bit.

 

“Yeah, yeah they did.” Steve nods. “They didn’t like me much, no dame ever wanted to dance with me.” Steve laughs, but it’s tight and short.

 

            “Did I?” It’s out, it’s out there. Bucky can’t take it back. He holds Steve’s gaze steadly, even as Steve’s expression goes mostly blank.

 

            “Did you dance with them? Sure you did, Buck. You were great with ladies.” Steve’s tone is determined, and his expression is purposefully ignorant. Bucky knows that he knows what Bucky had meant, and he’s trying not to answer.

 

            “What about men? Was I great with them too?” It’s almost cruel, how much Steve’s expression shakes and hardens at Bucky’s pointed question. The underlying question is harsher, and digs under years of repression like a knife. _Was I great with you too?_

 

            “It was the 40’s, Buck…I don’t-“

 

            “You know what I’m asking, Steve.” Bucky sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It was long still, and usually he wore it up but tonight it’s down. He can see how it had hung loose around his face in one of Steve’s drawings, painstakingly detailed. “Don’t play around.”

 

            “I’m not! You were great with everybody, Buck, of course you were.” Steve shook his head, breaking their eye contact. “I don’t know if you ever had…sex with a man but I know that didn’t stop them from whistling at you sometimes. Or for Michael downstairs from looking you up and down when you went to get the mail.”

 

            Steve _noticed_ though, that’s what’s important. That’s what soothes Bucky enough to let the conversation go for now, to let Steve go back to chopping and him to stirring and them both to dancing around each other. It’s enough that Steve noticed and remembers men who liked Bucky in the 40’s, maybe it means Steve was one of them.

 

            When Bucky goes to bed that night, he touches himself and wishes he could remember if he ever touched Steve like this.

 

* * *

 

 

            Some time in the middle of the night, when the shadows are deepest, Bucky wakes up in a cold sweat. He checks his hands for blood, but they’re clean. He washes them desperately in the bathroom anyway, trying to get the feeling of thick viscous _realistic_ blood off his skin. The dream had been an anonymous Soldier kill, where he’d used one of his metal fingers to dig into and tear apart his mission’s neck.

           

            HYDRA had to clean the blood out of the grooves of his hand, and he remembers how it hurt to have them pulled ever so slightly apart for the cleaning.

 

            Bucky tries going back to bed alone, but the walls seem too close and the dark too enveloping. He gets up intending to just go quietly watch tv in the living room, but somehow his feet drag him to Steve’s bedroom door. It’s cracked open, and when Bucky pushes it fully open he can see Steve’s massive frame under the quilt snoring lightly near the wall. He shouldn’t do it, but he’s walking over before he can stop himself.

 

            He lays down on his back, intending to just close his eyes for a few minutes, catch his breathe, let the fear dissipate. The moment his head hits Steve’s cold second pillow though, he’s out like a light.

 

            Blissfully, he doesn’t dream again.

 

            When he wakes up, it’s slow and it’s gentle and his eyelashes flutter against his skin angelically like they do in movies. The second after he truly registers the sunlight and being awake, he registers the strong muscled arm around his waist. It’s so cliché it actually startles a laugh out of him, which makes the arm tighten more in reflex, and makes him laugh even harder. If Wanda could see them now, she’d film it and send it to Clint and Sam immediately.

 

            He calms after a second of hysterical laughter and really takes in the situation. He came to Steve after his nightmare. He fell asleep in the bed. Presently, he’s wrapped up in the arm and muscled arms of his childhood best friend. Most importantly his dick is hard.

 

            Laughing again is out of his control.

 

            “Buck, shut up.” Steve whines, pulling Bucky imperceptibly further into him and burying his head between Bucky’s neck and the pillows. “Too early.”

 

            “I don’t know what time it is.” Bucky chuckles, even as his brain tries to process that Steve knows Bucky is here, but apparently isn’t freaking out. Bucky can’t help but reach down and stroke the soft peach fuzz on Steve’s arms, his brain nearly exploding by how good it feels to be held and to let go.

 

            “Too early is what time it is.”

 

            After a moment, in which Bucky closes his eyes and tries to memorize every sensation coursing through his synapses, he clears his throat and asks, “Hey…you okay with this?”

 

            “You had a nightmare didn’t you?” Bucky nods. “I’m okay with anything that helps, Buck.”

 

            “It…quiets my mind.” He responds, telling a half-truth. Being in Steve’s arms both calms the bad parts of him, and alights the good parts.

 

            “Good.”

 

            Bucky swears up and down that he feels the slight, dry press of lips to the nape of his neck.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Hey! Steve, come here.” Bucky pops his head out of the bathroom. In the living room Steve’s writing up a few ‘mission’ reports for T’Challa, all about the small saving-cats-from-trees and helping Wakandan police missions they’ve had in the last couple weeks. They haven’t ventured out of Wakanda at all, and so far the world hasn’t burned down and Steve hasn’t gone stir-crazy. Things seem to be working just fine, which is really nice for a change.

 

            “What?” Steve shouts back, not looking up from his papers.

 

            “Just come here, man!” Bucky turns back to the mirror and fingers the long lock of hair hanging in front of his face. It’s grown down to his shoulders, and though he both likes and hates it, it might be time for a trim.

 

            “Fine, fine.” He hears Steve mutter as he pads down the hall, and swings into the bathroom. His hand stays on the door frame as he looks Bucky up and down for signs of trouble. “What is it?”

 

            “Is my hair too long?”

 

            “You got me up for that?” Steve asks incredulously, his expression souring when Bucky just nods. “It’s fine, Buck.”

 

            “Yeah, but is it too long?” Bucky pushes, something about the length wriggling under his skin and making him uncomfortable. It’s unruly, it’s unusual, it reminds him of being the Winter Soldier (which doesn’t necessarily bother him but isn’t exactly a fun memory).

 

            “Do you _like_ it?”

 

            “Dunno. Do you?” The blush that immediately spreads across Steve’s face is all encompassing and bright. Steve’s hand falls from the doorway, going to the back of his neck to rub awkwardly.

 

            “Y-Yeah, Buck. I mean, I think it looks real nice. But if you want to cut it, you should.”

 

            “I don’t hate it; it’s just getting too long, I think. I don’t know how to deal with this much hair.” He felt sorry for girls like Wanda who had not only a head full of hair, but nearly down to their waists! If anything he preferred Natasha’s, hers was generally shorter like his own, and she seemed to know how to manage it.

 

            “You could put it up in a bun or a ponytail, like ladies do.”

 

            “Isn’t that…a girl thing?” Even ladies in the 40’s had done that sometimes in the summer, when it was just too hot, or for fancy events with their equally fancy updos. But it’d been a girl thing, men never had hair long enough for that type of style.

 

            “No, not anymore. Here, hold on.” Steve says, holding a hand up. He disappears out the door, and Bucky can hear him head down the hall to Wanda’s room. He hears the soft, far away murmur of discussion and then Steve is back, a pink elastic in hand. “Here ya go, a loaner.”

 

            Bucky stretches it between his hands for a second and then looks up at himself in the mirror. He clumps his hair together and pulls it through the band once. On instinct he turns the band and wraps it around again, which is tighter but not tight enough. He can just barely make it wrap around one more time, and that’s tight enough. He pulls on his hair a little bit to make the band go tighter to his skull and there it is.

 

            He’s got a little pony tail, no where near as long as Wanda’s would be, but it’s almost…cute. He likes how it looks, and it eases that feeling of being out of control that the long unruly mop of hair had given him. Bucky turns to Steve, smiling in success, and sees that the blush hasn’t gone away, but possibly has gotten worse.

 

            “Does it look good?” _Do you like it?_ Steve nods, shakily with a gentle familiar smile.

 

            “Yeah, you look great Buck.” It doesn’t pass Bucky’s notice that Steve says _he_ looks great, not the hair. Maybe it’s wishful thinking…maybe it’s not.

 

            Bucky decides to wait one more day at least, one more day to show him that they can have this…if Steve wants it.

 

* * *

  

            The next day Bucky goes into high drive, waking up at 6 to join Steve on a run. They don’t talk much because the sun is barely up, and something about a light grey morning sky just demands quiet. Running at Steve’s pace is easy because of his own serum, but that doesn’t mean Bucky’s not nearly drenched in sweat when they finally finish their run. He takes second shower so he has time to make Steve breakfast.

 

            It’s just a stack of blueberry pancakes, but the way Steve’s face positively lights up when he sees it makes Bucky smile all the way through his shower.

 

            Later Steve sketches idly pressed close and casual to Bucky on the couch, while they both half-watch episodes of Criminal Minds. Bucky’s in one of Steve’s shirts, which had ended up in his laundry by accident and he’d never returned it. Wanda comes and watches a couple episodes later in the afternoon, and she gives Bucky the subtlest stern expression behind Steve’s back. When he gets up for a drink at the same time she goes to get popcorn, she corners him.

 

            “You and Steve went for a run this morning, hm?” She asks, propping herself against the counter near the microwave, where popcorn loudly pops. There’s a smug little smile on her face that annoys the hell out of Bucky.

 

            “Yep, we did. You and Nat had a date at Panther’s Palace, hm?” Buck snaps back, rifling through the fridge for the last sprite. He could have sworn he’d seen it near the back.

 

            “Recon is not a date.” Wanda says, before shrugging. “Not that I would be against one.”

 

            “Anyway, what’s the point, Wand?” Bucky asks as he finally finds the last can and stands up straight again.

 

            “You are taking _steps_ , little, baby steps when you should have taken the elevator.” Her popcorn finishes popping, but like the smug asshole she is, she doesn’t move. Wanda keeps her eyes trained steadily on Bucky, the judging gaze strong enough to make him, an ex-assassin, quake.

 

            “What are you, the Riddler?”  Bucky starts to walk away, fully intending to go back and sit quietly until it’s dinner time and Bucky can try wooing Steve with carbs.

 

            “I am saying, do you really think Steve would be wasting a single second of his time with you being ‘friends’ if he knew you wanted him too? If he knew you were not just ‘okay’, but longing?”

 

            Bucky was speechless. Just like a woman, just like Wanda, to cut straight to the heart of a complicated man’s problems. “I…me and…” He tries to formulate some sort of argument, defend waiting, defend easing into it, when he realizes something.

 

            He spent all his money on Dot that day at Coney Island in the 40’s. He asked women to dance and found someone else if they said no, maybe even made Steve do a two-step with him – that much he remembers. Bucky found Steve dates, he found his own. Bucky even remembers setting up a friend down at the docks, and going to their wedding.

 

            Bucky has never been, as much as he can remember, the waiting type.

 

            “There is never enough time with anyone you love,” Wanda admits quietly, bowing her head. “Especially for us.”

 

            That, more than anything, convinces Bucky that he can’t wait anymore. There won’t be a perfect time, he thinks while walking back to the living room, drink forgotten. He won’t remember everything and if he does, recovery never ends. Steve being Cap, not being Cap, Bucky being or not being the Winter Soldier, none of it will ever fit the way they want it to.

 

            “Steve.” Bucky just barely manages to grit out before he’s sliding onto the couch right up against Steve’s left side. Somewhere down the hallway, Wanda rapidly closes herself in her room with headphones and popcorn. In the living room, Bucky kisses Steve hard and with every word he cannot say, and every feeling he’s been holding in, and every memory he’s not sure is real.

 

            His artificial hand runs up Steve’s neck to tease at the light hair on the back of his neck, and strokes over his warm nape. Thumb settled in the notch of Steve’s jaw, Bucky pulls back just enough to feel Steve’s mouth start to slip away before pushing back.

 

            It’s a tenuous, stressful heartbeat of a moment before Steve starts to kiss him back. Then it’s like fireworks on the fourth of July, Steve’s hands sliding into Bucky’s hair and wrecking his ponytail. His lips are dry, and warm, and send sparks of pleasure through Bucky’s skin like a wildfire. He feels like he might actually burn up under Steve’s touch, is that normal? Has he felt this way for every kiss he’s ever had?

           

            Bucky shifts further so that he’s half sitting and half on his knees, Steve’s neck resting on the back of the couch with Bucky nearly on top of him. He luxuriates in the feeling of one Steve’s hands falling to his waist, stroking over the exposed skin of his lower back. It’s heady, knowing that Steve isn’t pulling away, that as far as body language is going Steve wants this too.

 

            But he’s got to know, he has to know for sure.

 

            Bucky pulls back slowly, their lips coming apart with a small wet pop as they cling together.  Steve chases him, breath coming in gentle pants against Bucky’s mouth. Steve’s are plump, and shiny, and Bucky desperately wants to dive back in for more. What can he do, he’s becoming greedier and greedier with each pulse of Steve’s heart against his palm. As an assassin, Bucky can read pain like a book – but he can read pleasure just as well, and it’s painted over each piece of Steve like a masterpiece.

 

            “Hey.” Bucky gasps finally, against Steve’s cheek as he presses his forehead to Steve’s temple. He can’t go too far away, magnetized to Steve.

 

            “Hi.” Steve laughs, his chest shaking lightly against Bucky’s and sending a shock through Bucky’s nervous system like dipping into ice. It’s strange, how fragile and new this body feels even though it’s done so much. But Bucky hasn’t been touched like this in 70 years, he hasn’t been kissed, he hasn’t felt the gentle shift of Steve’s skin against his. Even just the slight scratch of late-night stubble as Steve kisses Bucky’s neck, feels like flames.

 

            Bucky finally manages to get the willpower to push away from Steve, though he keeps both hands firmly on Steve’s shoulders while he does it. Steve has the red cheeks, plush lips and goofy smile of a man who has been greatly kissed – Bucky can’t say he’s not pleased.

 

            “So…I want this.” Bucky says, after a deep breath. He has to say it, he has to get it out – clear and concise so it can’t be misconstrued. A lot of their problems, he realizes, can be settled by this, by one direct conversation. If Steve says no, then that’s it – they’re best friends. If Steve says yes…then this could be something great. “I want you. I’m ready, I’m as healthy and recovered as I’m gonna get Steve, and I want you.”

 

            “I know you think-“

 

            “I know what you’re going to say and it’s going to piss me off.” Bucky sits back further, holding Steve against the couch when he moves, and glares at him. “ _I_ know my mind, Steve. I might have only 95% control of it, and about 70% of it’s memories, but I know what I want and I know what I can handle.”

 

            “Buck-“

 

            “This isn’t about me; I’ve made my decision.” Uncomfortable, and feeling out on the edge of the cliff alone, Bucky steps off the couch and tries to back away. Steve reaches out and stops him though with a strong grip to his hips, pleading expression on his face. “It’s up to you, Stevie. I’m with ya’, til the end of the line, no matter if we get there as friends or somethin’ more.”

 

            Steve’s hands tighten on Bucky’s hips as he slides to the edge of the couch, his head level with Bucky’s abdomen. Startling him for a second, Steve leans in and rests his forehead against Bucky. It’s a surprise, for sure, and it doesn’t really answer Bucky’s questions, but he finds himself cradling Steve’s head anyway. This man before him is precious and so important, and Bucky loves him, he does.

 

            “I love you, ya know.” Bucky reiterates, stroking through Steve’s hair softly as he speaks. He can feel Steve nod against his stomach, and before he can do anything, Steve is in front of him standing.

 

            “You’re sure…that you’re okay, Buck?”

 

            “I’m _sure_ , punk.” Bucky grins, punching Steve in the pec before drawing him into the tight circle of his arms.

 

            “I love you, jerk.” Steve whispers against Bucky’s cheek, kissing his way lightly across to Bucky’s lips. “Til the end of the line.” He kisses Bucky this time, and it fries Bucky’s brain just as hard – the feeling so intense and new. He feels like a virgin, or maybe this is just what it feels like with a soul mate. Because that’s what Steve’s gotta be, come on.

 

            You don’t get just any old sweetheart back after 70 years apart. Whatever comes next, whether it be more war, or more running, they can face it together like they always have – and always will.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment!!


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